Battle Scars
by TolkienScribe
Summary: Even the bravest of soldiers do not leave the battle without scars. Rated T for a reason. Part of the Green Leaves Universe. Complete. Do not own. Do read and review. :)


**Battle Scars**

 **Summary:** Even the bravest of soldiers do not leave the battle without scars.

 **Disclaimer:** Not even one of Galadriel's hair. (Who caught the reference?)

 **Warning:** T rating is there for a reason. This may prove disturbing.

Enjoy!

 **~S~**

 _Edoras,_

 _Third Age,_

The Golden Hall was eerily quiet. His breathing was harsh to his own ears. The hearth was dying with and only the embers glowed. A gloom settled upon the Hall.

"Uncle? Théodred?" No answer came. Dread pooled in his stomach. He crossed the Hall and threw open the doors leading outside.

The sky was dark, shadowed and the stars were veiled. His heart beat faster. No wardens stood in their usual positions. But he found a figure dressed in white, her hair a sheet of gold and facing away from him. Thick air blew around him, making the figure before him ghostly and distant.

"Sister-"

Éowyn turned towards him and Éomer nearly recoiled. She was just as beautiful and cold as always. It was her eyes that terrified him, glaring at him with the depression he never saw in his own burden of responsibility.

"Too long have I watched you ride away and leave me in this prison." Éowyn said. "Too long have I dwelled here, with that wretched bastard haunting my steps and learning my movement in memory. Where were you to support me then?"

"I-" Éomer's throat was dry. He ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them. "I did my duty to Rohan, as I should-"

"And what of me?" Éowyn was bitter. "Was I meant to wait in an empty hall? Was I meant to provide food and drink and warm beds for men when they were done with their deeds of glory and valour?"

"The field of battle is never glorious, Éowyn. Sister mine-"

"What right have you or any other man to command a woman that she may not take her place among your ranks?" Éowyn stepped forward, the only vision in white on the otherwise dark plain. The pillars melted away, only the sky and ground remained. "Nay, brother, you should have known of all peoples, I was not one to follow orders."

"Sister-"

But the terrain changed and Éowyn was gone. He heard screams of the dying mixed with the howls of the orcs. Bloody ground churned beneath him and numbers of the Rohirric Riders piled higher as he stepped forward. His heart pounded and his breath grew harsher. The orcs disappeared steadily, until all that was left was piles of bodies with fair hair and unseeing blue eyes. At last he found the body he feared was there. Éowyn wore no helmet, and her hair splayed on the bloody soil, pale-faced and unblinking eyes. He gave a wail and dropped before her and cradled her head as he used to when she was a child and wild with grief over the loss of their parents. He rocked her to and fro, begging, pleading for her to return.

Théoden lay beside her, his eyes too staring up at the pitch black sky. His wrinkles were more prominent and he looked just as old and weary as the time when Wormtongue cast his leechcraft over him. Éomer watched him while he wept like a babe, cheek resting over the head of his dead sister.

Suddenly, Théoden' head jerked towards him and his dead eyes stared directly into Éomer's own.

"It falls upon you whether the kingdom is made or broken, sister-son." Théoden's voice was not his own, but rather it was deformed and terrifying. Éomer shrank away from his uncle's body.

He felt a hand clamp over his throat and he tried frankly to breath. He looked down and met his sister's unseeing eyes, her hand uncannily strong.

"You did not let me die?" Éowyn's voice shrieked higher than Éomer ever heard it. "A death of renowned glory was all that I wished for, brother. Could you not have given me my last wish?"

"Sister-"

The world began to turn dark and only his sister's eyes were the last thing he saw. He heard her whisper in his ear.

"You should have let me die."

oOo

 _Plains of Rohan,_

 _Fourth Age,_

Éomer shot up, his hand grasping the knife he kept under his pillow. But there was no enemy to attack, no intruder in his tent. He took in a deep breath and rubbed his face wearily.

 _Yet another nightmare…_

His shirt clung to his chest with sweat and he felt undeniably hot. He pushed away the fur and rose from his cot. The tent moved around him in the wind. The air inside the tent was oppressive and reminding too vividly of his dream. Once he tugged on his boots, he went outside.

The air was cool, instantly soothing him. He took in a deep breath. The air smelled of fresh dirt and grass. The moon was setting; there were few hours to dawn. He went towards the place where the horses were pitched, intending to find Firefoot.

He was not alone. Lothíriel stood there also, her hand pressed against her mare's muzzle.

"I didn't expect to find someone here." Éomer said.

"I, on the other, expected so." The Princess had a soft, calming voice. She was sensible for her age, and sharp when it came to political matters.

"And how is that?"

"I knew you would wake up eventually."

"My lady, I do not understand."

"I heard you."

Éomer stiffened. What had she heard? When he argued with Éowyn at the footstep of Meduseld? When he wailed over her body? When he choked?

"You should not be ashamed." Lothíriel's face darkened. "My brothers have returned the same."

"How-" Éomer cleared his throat. "How loud was I?"

"Not too loud… only ears who wished to hear would have heard."

"And what of your brothers?"

"The first night Elphir returned from war, he slept with a hand grasping his knife. When his wife tried to wake him, he nearly injured her. Thankfully, he came to his senses before he did. Amrothos is much worse. His screams once echoed the hallways."

"Once?"

"I do not whether he lessened his rest or he recovered. Somehow I am suspicious it is the former."

In the starlight, Lothíriel's skin glowed and for once Éomer wondered how strong her Elven bloodline was. She surely appeared like a she-Elf, dressed in her silver-embroidered blue robe under which a white nightgown peaked through. She was already young, so the beauty in the silver light made her seem ethereal.

"The healers say it will fade in time." Lothíriel said.

"Time is difficult to measure within a nightmare."

"So rouse yourself."

"It is not as easy, my lady."

"Nay, I expect not." Lothíriel said. The mare snorted in her hand and stepped away. Lothíriel's hand lowered to her side. "What was it about, if you do not mind my curiosity, Éomer King?"

Éomer opened his mouth to give her a curt reply of his wish to share nothing with her. But Lothíriel's face contained no malice. Her question was genuine and she looked at him expectantly. Her eyes were grey and framed with dark lashes.

"The Fields of Pelennor and whatever accursed event that led to it."

"Ah, the near demise of your sister and the death of your uncle."

He looked at her sharply. Lothíriel gave a small smile.

"You learn to see through the veiled remarks when your brothers are afflicted with memories of battles in their sleep."

"Except there were no memories."

"I see. Then do you know what they are?"

It was strange how easy it was to talk with her. Her voice was calm, feminine, enquiring but not intrusive.

"I am surprised Legolas did not waken."

"I think he is fully aware but he decided not to show himself. You are avoiding my question."

"I believe they are simply fears of what could have happened." Lothíriel's brow furrowed briefly.

"Perhaps it is time for you to let your fears bury in the dust where they belong, Éomer King. The past cannot be changed and if we worry our minds with how it could have happened in various conditions, then we will be witless."

Éomer was surprised by her words and amused as well.

"Pray tell; how does one as young as you come by such deep wisdom."

"I was left to fend in Dol Amroth with my mother and my sister by marriage. We learned not to worry about the past or the future, if we are to survive to see another day."

"The war, it seems, has reached far."

"Indeed it has. But it is upon us to make do with what is left in our hands. Responsibilities do not fade." Lothíriel stepped back and curtsied formally. "I hope I have lightened your heart somewhat, Éomer King, for I could not bear hearing you again each night. It is time for me to reach my own bed."

"I will try not to disturb you." Éomer attempted some humour. Lothíriel smiled.

"I should certainly hope so." There was laughter in her voice and she bid him farewell. Éomer lingered for a while, watching her leave and pondering over her advice. Nightmares did not leave so easily. They were like scars, only unseen and difficult to treat. Perhaps in time, however, he would be able to follow her

 **~S~**

 **Author's Note:**

-Exploring the case of PTSD in war veterans. I mixed up their stories and some of my own nightmares (Don't worry; I am not a PTSD patient. I am fit as a fiddle. Just saw some pretty grim stuff)

-Éomer's nightmare: When you read the narration of Fields of Pelennor, you see that Éomer was calm and composed as he could be in a situation even at the death of his beloved uncle. The sight of his sister proved to be his undoing and in his grief raised the chant "Death!":-

1\. Éowyn on the platform: represents his own grief and blame upon himself for not intervening sooner and thus save his sister from the heartache. (Details in the next point).

2\. Sight of Rohirric bodies piling: The unpleasant memories of Fields of Pelennor are surfacing.

3\. Théoden's speech: This is a personal interpretation. I feel that Éomer would be taught the ways of the court but he would not really be raised to take the role of a king. Remember he was only 27 when he took the crown. He was younger than even Pippin.

4\. Éowyn's last message: This defines the lingering remnants of his worry for his sister, that she may not yet be happy in her new life. The dream sequence ends here, showing he is steadily recovering from the nightmare.

-Éomer's lack of knowledge: Éomer was aware his sister led a difficult life in Meduseld, but from the chapter on Éowyn's recovery through Aragorn's help showed he was not fully aware of the severity of her depression and wish for death on a battlefield. Tolkien mentioned he looked upon her differently after Gandalf and Aragorn explained her condition. I will not call her suicidal. That is a coward choice and she is strong. But I expect for her, death on the field is a swifter one than any else she could get as a woman.

-In my universe, this takes place during my story "Over Time, We Are Brothers".

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